“I’m not talking about outlaws and contrabandistas. Something more official, like a piece of private property that someone’s got staked out for a private claim, a construction site, warehouse, abandoned diggings.”
“It’s a desert, see? Ain’t nobody building nothing out there, nobody working a claim. What silver there was here played out a long time ago. I know.”
Kilroy went on. “Maybe someplace that was open but has been fenced off in the last few months, or posted no trespassing, or has guards—”
Brady suddenly looked cagey. “Maybe…”
“What?”
“The ten?”
“You’ve got to sing for your supper, Hard Tack. What the hell, you’d think I’m trying to chisel you out of a lousy ten bucks—”
“Okay, okay, don’t get sore. Remember, though, ten bucks ain’t lousy to me, it’s real dough.”
“Then earn it.”
“Not far from Wild Horse Pass, west of the mountains, there’s an old abandoned gypsum mine,” Brady said. “It’s played out, too, just like the silver lodes. About a month ago, some outfit took it over. Don’t know what they think they’re gonna do with it, because the last of whatever gypsum was in there was hauled out of there back in the fifties. They got some private guards up there, real mean sons of bitches that chase everybody off the property. Real bastards. They caught a fellow I know doing a bit of prospecting in the hills back of the mine, and they beat the piss out of him. Turned him over to the law, too. He got tried for trespassing and couldn’t pay the fine, so they gave him ninety days on the county road gang.”
Kilroy said, “Who owns it?”
“I dunno. What do you think I am, a realtor? I told you what I know, now gimme the ten,” Brady said.
Kilroy gave him the ten, Brady’s lumpy, oversized fist closing around the bill in a death grip.
“One more thing,” Kilroy said. “I’m not too popular in certain quarters of Adobe Flats—”
“I wonder why,” Brady said, sarcastic.
“So if you’re smart, you’ll keep our conversation private. It’s healthier that way.”
“For me or for you?”
“Both.”
“Mister, it’s already forgotten.” Brady got his feet under him to rise, and this time Kilroy didn’t interfere. Brady said, “I’m gonna get to work and start forgetting it right now.”
He staggered away, lurching into the nearest bar, which happened to be the Doghouse. He must have flashed the ten in time to keep from getting bounced, since no one propelled him out the front door and into the street.
That would come later, no doubt, after he’d drunk up the ten, Kilroy thought. He headed off toward the town square.
Sheriff Boyle’s hair was slicked down, he was freshly shaved, and he reeked of cologne. Kilroy figured the lawman had a hot date later tonight, and from what he’d picked up earlier from Hard Tack and some other town gossips and busybodies, Kilroy guessed that the date was with that stellar dancing attraction Vangie Lynn.
Boyle grumbled, “Sure took your time about getting here.” It was only ten minutes after midnight, but he was impatient to get on with his extracurricular activities. He and Kilroy were in Boyle’s office. Boyle shoved a folder across his desk. “Here’s the material you wanted, though why you’re interested in some of this stuff is beyond me. Like that Moomjian case. Hell, that’s nothing but a routine traffic accident. I know, I investigated it myself.”
“It’s all grist for my mill, Sheriff.” Kilroy leafed through the folder, scanning the documents. They looked promising, but he’d know better after examining them in detail back at his hotel room.
Gathering up the papers, he put them back in the folder and slipped it into the manila envelope that it had been in when given to him by Boyle. Rising, he tucked it under his arm. “Thanks, Sheriff, I appreciate it.”
“Wish to hell I knew what it was all about.”
“It’s about handling things quietly so the FBI doesn’t have to get called into town,” Kilroy said. “Keep cooperating and we can avoid that very thing. It would do a lot of folks not much good if the G-men ever start digging into the way this town is run.” Boyle was disinclined to reply, being one of those folks who’d prefer not having to account for themselves to federal investigators.
Kilroy said, “Stay available; things might start breaking fast.”
Boyle said, “You can always reach me through the dispatcher, day or night.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Kilroy crossed to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said, “Tell me, who bought up that old gypsum mine on the other side of the mountains?”
Boyle snorted his derision. “That hole in the ground? Bert Sarkesian picked up the property a month or two back. He’s the fellow that owns that carpet discount house.”
“I’ve heard the name, seen him around.”
“Typical city slicker, comes out here to what used to be mining country and thinks he’s going to strike it rich. Reckons he can strike some fresh mineral deposits in the mine using some new-fangled geological gadgetry or something.”
“Maybe he’s on to something,” Kilroy suggested.
Boyle shook his head. “That mine’s been checked and double-checked by experts and come up empty every time. All he’s doing is digging a dry hole.” Boyle’s forehead scrunched up, indicating thought. “Say—that Moomjian was coming back from visiting Bert when he wrecked his car and got killed. Drunk. What all you so interested in Bert Sarkesian for?”
“I’m looking for a good deal on some new carpeting,” Kilroy said. “Don’t think too hard, Sheriff. And don’t talk about our business, not even a little bit.”
“I know how to keep my trap shut,” Boyle said resentfully.
“Good,” Kilroy said. “That Deputy Lane looks mighty ambitious. I’d hate to see him running this department instead of you.” He went out.
Sheriff Boyle would talk, talk plenty, and Kilroy could guess to whom: Vangie Lynn. No doubt he’d already done so. That explained how Rio Maldonado had been able to get a line on Kilroy so fast. Boyle had blabbed to Vangie Lynn, and she’d relayed the info to Rio. From the way she’d been holding hands with Rio at the funeral, it was pretty obvious that they were more than good friends.
Tonight, when Boyle hooked up with her after her last set at the club, she’d worm still more information out of him, getting an update on what he’d talked about with Kilroy and where the latter’s interests were focusing. She’d pass that on to Rio, too. In fact, Kilroy was counting on it, because it would add extra credence to the buildup he was feeding Rio.
So thought Kilroy as he walked from the police station to his hotel. He was staying at the Hotel Cleve, a stopping place patronized mostly by traveling salesmen and tourists on their way to someplace else. It was located in New Town, about six blocks north and three traffic squares west of the police station.
He was not so deep in thought that he failed to notice the car that had picked him up when he exited the station and had been tailing him ever since. Kilroy turned right at the fourth street north of the police station. It was a commercial area, lined with stores that had closed for the business day at dusk.
He went west, walking on the north side of the street. The street was quiet, deserted; he had it all to himself. He and the dark car that was poking along about a block behind, following him.
He came to an area where a building had been torn down, leaving a vacant lot in its place. A sign promised that the site was under construction. The sign was weathered, the paint peeling; it had stood there for a long time. The weeds in the lot were waist-high.
This looked like a likely spot. Kilroy eased the .38 out of the holster and palmed it in his right hand, holding it close to his side. He kept on walking as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
They worked it cute. The car paused about a half a block behind Kilroy. There was the sound of a door opening. Glancing over his shoulder, Ki
lroy saw a guy in a dark suit get out of the front passenger seat, stepping down to the pavement and closing the door behind him. Footfalls sounded as he started walking in Kilroy’s wake.
Kilroy had thought they might try a drive-by and he was prepared for it, but the guy getting out behind him meant they would try a different approach. The car resumed moving, driving west past Kilroy. Glancing sideways at it, he saw that it was occupied solely by a driver.
The car rolled on several dozen feet ahead of him before pulling over to the curb. The driver got out, went around the rear of the car and stepped up to the sidewalk, facing Kilroy and starting toward him.
Running feet sounded behind Kilroy. Glancing back over his left shoulder, he saw the guy already had his gun out. Dropping into a half crouch, Kilroy fired under his left arm, putting two slugs into the gunman’s middle.
Kilroy sidestepped to the right, swinging the gun toward the driver. A shocked outcry escaped the driver as he drew a gun from a holster under his left arm. But Kilroy’s gun was already out. He put two rounds into the driver, who crumpled into a heap on the sidewalk.
Echoes from the shots racketed down the street, fading into inaudibility. Kilroy straightened up, looking around. As far as he could see, he was alone on the street with the two dead guys. The buidings lining the street remained silent, inert. No lights came on; nobody lifted a curtain or stuck their head out of a window to investigate. There wasn’t a car in sight.
The driver was nearer, so Kilroy went to him first. He was thirtyish, with black hair and a mustache and two bullet holes in his chest, one that had tagged him in the left breast over the heart. Kilroy pried the gun out of his hand, a semiautomatic pistol, and dropped it in the right side pocket of his jacket.
The car’s engine was idling. Kilroy got an idea. If they could play it cute, so could he. Going to the car, he opened the driver’s-side door, leaned over, and tripped the trunk release, unlocking it. Raising the trunk lid, he hooked his hands under the driver’s arms, dragged him to the rear of the car, hoisted him up, and tumbled the body into the trunk.
He looked around. The street was still silent, deserted, no oncoming cars or pedestrians in view. He got into the driver’s seat and drove in reverse until he was abreast of the other guy, the passenger. He got out and went to him.
The dead man seemed cut from the same cloth as the driver, except that instead of sporting a mustache, this one had a neatly trimmed black beard. One shot had taken him in the middle, the other had hit in the throat. No life was left in him.
He’d dropped his gun during the shooting; it lay on the sidewalk about six feet away from him. It was a short, snouty, foreign-made semiautomatic pistol. Kilroy dropped it in the left side pocket of his jacket.
He hoisted the body into the trunk. He had to move the dead man’s limbs around, wedging them at the sides so they wouldn’t stick out at odd angles and keep the trunk lid from closing. He closed it.
When he’d made his play, he’d had to let go of the manila envelope holding the files he’d gotten from Sheriff Boyle. It lay on the sidewalk. Retrieving it, he got in the driver’s seat and drove away.
Some blocks away from the scene of the crime, he found a quiet side street and pulled over to the curb to make a cell phone call to Brand. Brand was his partner and teammate on the Adobe Flats assignment. Kilroy was working it from the inside, Brand from the outside. He gave Brand a quick summary of what gone down, telling him where he was going and where to meet him.
Kilroy drove south, down into Old Town. He parked the car on a quiet street behind the back of the Toro Loco club, after first checking the traffic signs to make sure that parking was legal there. It was. No restricted zones, not even a parking meter. A couple of other cars were also parked on the street.
Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped down the steering wheel and all the places he’d touched in the car in order to remove his fingerprints. That was the only reason he carried a handkerchief, for wiping away fingerprints. He wiped down the car keys, leaving them under the driver’s-side floor mat.
Grabbing his manila envelope, he got out of the car, using the handkerchief to work the door handle. He closed the door, leaving it unlocked. He wiped down the outside of the car, the handle and trunk lid, and anything else he might have touched. It might have seemed odd to go through these precautions when the corpses had bullets from his gun inside them, the same gun that had liquidated Barker and Deetz. But there was method to his madness. If there was any comeback on these kills, he could always claim that the gun had been lifted by the Maldonados and used in an attempt to frame him. He had a strong feeling, not so much an intuition as a certainty, that before too long they wouldn’t be around to contradict him.
He walked to the end of the street, made a right, and went to the place where he’d told Brand to meet him. A pickup truck with a camper van attached stood there; behind the wheel sat Brand. Kilroy climbed in the passenger side and Brand drove away.
He filled Brand in on the latest development and the strategy for tomorrow. He passed the .38 to Brand for safekeeping. Kilroy had plenty of other guns to fall back on.
Brand dropped him off at the Hotel Cleve, where Kilroy reached his room without further incident. For about an hour, he poured over the documents given him by the sheriff. Then he went to bed. He was beat!
THIRTEEN
Like last time, Hector frisked Kilroy outside Rio’s office in the back of the Toro Loco. It was mid-afternoon and the club was dead quiet. It wouldn’t open for business until later, to catch the dinner crowd. Now there were no crowds, no band and no boozers, only a skeleton crew of busboys and custodial types handling clean-up chores. Fewer witnesses to a murder if murder was called for, thought Kilroy. He hoped it wouldn’t be his. He’d laid plans to turn that hope into something more concrete.
Hector’s search came up blank, taking the man by surprise. “No gun?”
Kilroy said, “Who needs a gun when you’re among friends?”
That only made Hector more suspicious, prompting him to repeat the search more thoroughly this time. He even looked inside Kilroy’s manila envelope with the dossier, just in case a flat little pistol was stowed inside. There wasn’t. What was in the dossier was dynamite, but not the kind Hector was used to.
Grudgingly, Hector opened the door to let Kilroy into the office, following at his heels. Rio was seated behind his desk, toying with a switchblade stiletto. Leandro was there, too, filling up an armchair. Thankfully, neither Paco and his father nor their equivalents were present, getting the treatment.
Rio glanced at Hector. Hector said, “He’s not carrying a gun, Boss.”
Rio’s eyebrows lifted at that announcement. He said to Kilroy, “You must be getting reformed.”
“Must be the atmosphere in Adobe Flats. So elevating,” Kilroy said.
Rio nodded. “It’s been known to give people wings. Not that I consider you a candidate for a harp and a heavenly choir. You look like the type who’s headed for the other direction.”
“Aren’t we all? But not too soon, I hope.”
“We’ll see. So what have you got for me, Kilroy?”
“Your brother’s killer. The guy who tried to make it a triple funeral yesterday by doing in you and Leandro. The guy who’s trying to move in and take over the town.”
“And who might that be?”
“Bert Sarkesian.”
Hector barked out a laugh, but choked it off when he saw that neither Rio nor Leandro were particularly amused. Leandro, sitting slumped in the depths of an overstuffed armchair, rolled his eyes.
Rio ostentatiously stifled a yawn. “The only thing he’s bossing is the carpet concession, and welcome to it. That line of work doesn’t interest me.”
Kilroy said, “I don’t expect you to buy a pig in a poke. I’ve got proof.”
“Prove it.”
“What do you know about Sarkesian anyway?”
“All right, I’ll play along,” Rio said. His seeming nonch
alance reminded Kilroy of the elaborate disinterest a cat displays when it begins toying with a mouse. Sometimes, it gives the mouse enough leeway to delude it into thinking it might just get away, and then out of nowhere, wham!—Tabby strikes.
Rio said, “He’s an Armenian rug merchant with an extended family who moved here a couple of years ago and set up a discount warehouse emporium to peddle his wares.”
“Maybe so,” Kilroy said, “but whoever he is, he’s not Bert Sarkesian.”
“Says who?”
“U.S. customs and immigration service. According to them, the real Bert Sarkesian died during a buying trip in Turkey a few years back.” Kilroy took the folder out of the manila envelope, opened it, and withdrew the relevant documents, handing them to Rio.
Rio glanced over them. “Documents can be faked.”
“They can, but these aren’t. Check on them yourself to see if they’re the genuine article.”
Rio handed the documents to Leandro, who began studying them, moving his lips as he read through them. Kilroy said, “Then there’s the matter of Bob Moomjian.”
Rio said, “Who?”
“Bob Moomjian. An Armenian-American who knew the real Bert Sarkesian. They worked together on some fund drive to build a monument to Armenian genocide victims of the Turks way back when. Passing through Adobe Flats a year ago, imagine his surprise when he discovered his old pal had a big store right here in town. He went out to Sarkesian’s ranch to visit him. That was the last time anyone ever saw him alive—except for Sarkesian, that is. Moomjian drank too much and wrecked his car on the return trip, killing himself.”
Kilroy pulled out the police report on the crash, the coroner’s report, and the death certificate, passing them to Rio. Rio said, “So what?
Kilroy said, “Moomjian was a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. He’d been clean and sober for over ten years.”
Revenge of the Dog Team Page 20
